Open A New Tune And A Friend

[Krima]

23th Day of Fall, 513 A.V.

Krima glanced around The White Crane, the room filled with Akalak and music alike. The musician from tonight had an olive skin tone and a shaven head. Krima assumed the man was Human, perhaps reaching midlife. He had a wooded piano infront of him with a dark grain and ivory keys. It was an elegant instrument, and the melody it produced showed it. The man's fingers glided across the keys, lightly hitting each note and rapidly tapping a few fingers on certain keys. The combination of rapidly fingering the piano and gentle stroking of certain keys gave a lighthearted atmosphere. Krima smiled as she listened to the pianist. She had always loved music, and had a habit of humming different tunes as she worked.

In between sips of her wine, she hummed along to the piano, memorizing the tune. The wine itself was average. A bit on the bitter side, but average non the less. Taking a look around the room, Krima wasn't surprised. The vast majority of the audience was Akalak or Human. She saw a member or two of her own race, and one house cat listening too intently to the Musician not to be Kelvic. The White Crane was crowded, and she enjoyed it. The circular building was filled with the warmth only she knew. It wrapped all around her like a blanket. She felt at ease, even though the table she was at was empty. She would of preferred to be here with a friend, but she hadn't exactly made many yet. She wasn't shy, but she was quiet. Krima gave a soft sigh. I'm going to have to make more friends at some point. she thought to herself.

The pianist played his last bit and the entire room, Including herself, rose from their chairs to applaud. The man bowed and wished everyone a great night, before introducing the next performer to the stage. It was a famous poet she had heard of before. He did many poems about Valterrian and prior according to a conversation she overheard. A few more people filled into The White Crane, taking up the last of the available seating. Krima had gotten a table fairly away from the stage, but wasn't surprised when the chair next to her moved. She gave a smile and moved her own chair over, making way for them to sit.

[Duce Hazimari]

"Thank you"Duce said as he took the last available seat and turning so he could watch the performance. He was surprised that he was in a place like this. Quiet, settle,crowded, he was not in his natural habitat. A rabbit in a wolf's den. Though he usually wouldn't be found no where near this place he somehow wandered to it and got shoved in by the crowd of people trying to find a seat. Seeing that it would be rude to just get up and walk out the door in the middle of someone's poetry though he was used to doing it to Jorin, and for the fact that there were so many people blocking his chair in the position that it was already in, he decided to sit and try to listen to poem. "Do you understand anything that they're saying?"He decided to ask the woman that kindly moved out of the way to let him sit. Poetry just wasn't his thing. While the others sat and watched in amusement, he was trying his hardest to seem interested and not go to sleep. It felt like bells as the poet spoke every line and verse but eventually it was done. Happy that it was over Duce stood up to leave but his curiosity pulled him back to wander why was everyone snapping their fingers. Was the poets performance bad? How rude of them. He didn't understand the poem at all but he had the respect to show the poet some dignity. He watched as the poet bowed."Being shunned and still thankful.". Amused by the poets pride Duce stood up and clapped his large hands and cheered while everyone else snapped. Then the room got quiet and all eyes were on him. Guessing that the crowed was upset that he didn't agree with their decision, he clapped and cheered louder. "Yea! you talk..about..what ever it was and meant...Good job!" "How disrespectful" He heard someone scoff. He looked around the room at all the eyes glaring at him in disgust. "Did..I do something wrong?" he asked the girl again as he took a seat. He was confused. All he was trying to was congratulate the performer. Man people were weird.

[Favchean Hronis]

TimeStamp 23rd Day of Fall The door darkens gently as a large Akalak fills its frame, his skin appearing balck in the back lit room. His head sported a popular cut, a braid tightly woven to his scalp, shaved on the sides to make a braided Mohawk. The hair that was left in the braid was the blackest of midnight and was difficult at a distance to tell the difference between his skin tone and his hair. His height was impressive when compared to a mere human, at six foot four inches he stood head and shoulders over most men, but for an Akalak he was a tad on the short side. However he made up for it in muscular bulk. His clothing was standard issue, supple leather simple but functional, well worn so that it did not creak as he made his way across the room. Pale blue eyes land upon the boisterous brethren, one sardonic brow quirking as he made his way silently across the floor. "No worries my friend." Favchean rumbles, his voice is often described as pebbles on rough paper, definitely nothing that would be thought of as pretty, his language he speaks is the native Akalak tongue Tukant. "Your just a little ..loud for this climate. You should observe your surroundings, and mimic those around you when you are unsure of proper conduct." This last was spoken in friendly tones with no malice or reprimand to them. It was now that Favchean's gaze has fallen onto the small Konti woman gracing the table as well, and for a moment he simply took in the small woman. It always amazed him the tininess of these special women, amazed that in those seemingly frail bodies lie the secrets of the future of Akalak. For only the Konti could be guaranteed a successful birth of Akalak babies, all other races have a high mortality rate some more then others. Races that in appearances, appear much more suited to the physical build of the large Akalak. It amused Favchean how the two races were so polar opposites, one tiny delicate and bright, the other dark, large, and cumbersome. It fit though. And like all of his kind he held the Konti women who graced their city in utmost respect. A regal bow is given, not doubled over at the waist but a gentle lowering of the head, his thick neck creasing. In broken Kontinese he greets the quiet woman, "Greetings. Pleasant I hope you are.." It didn't sound quite right, but the sounds were there, thanks to his Konti mother's influence.

[Krima]

23rd Day of Fall, 513 A.V.

"Do you understand anything that they're saying?" The large Akalak that sat next to her asked. She did a quick glance over him. He had green eyes that reminded her of the leafs before autumn stole their green and a scar on the right side of his head. She guessed he would tower over her if he stood up. It was a bit intimidating, just like the rest of the race. Still, he already seemed more decent than some of the other Akalaks she had encountered while walking around the city. On more than one occasion one of the large blue men shouted slurs across the street. Pushing that thought out of her mind she replied,

"This poet does a lot of poems about the Valterrian and before it." She explained. Personally, she didn't understand a decent amount of the words the poet said. Her common was somewhat limited, but she had to make do. Besides, listening could only help her improve. Krima listened intently on what the man was saying as he described war and the hated gods had for eachother. He described stories pasted down from generations of elders. Each one was as lovely and as descriptive as the next. When the last verse was read, Krima snapped her fingers along with the rest of the crowd. She looked over at the Akalak next to her, who seemed confused by the situation.

"Being shunned and still thankful." he muttered. She raised an eyebrow at the man, wondering why she thought he was being shunned. Snapping in poetry was how the crowd showed appreciation for the poet.

"He isn't being-" but it was too late. The man stood up and started to loudly clap and cheer for him. Krima instantly felt her face burn of embarrassment. She was sitting next to the man too, everyone would think she was attending with such a rude individual. She buried her face into her hands, feeling nothing but embarrassment and shame. Maybe she could just fade away, go invisible, be anywhere but where she was sitting right now. She didn't even hear what he asked as she sat down again. Instead she was drowning in her own embarrassment.

She didn't remove her hands until another Akalak approached the table, addressing the man next to her. She didn't understand what he was saying, but she could only hope he was scolding him for being so disrespectful. Slowly looking up, she found his glaze, and it took a lot of her not to flinch. Surely the man wouldn't accuse her of being just as rude. What if he owned the place and was about to kick both of them out?

"Greetings. Pleasant I hope you are.." The man said in her native tongue. She hadn't heard much of it since she was in Mura, and it was great to hear, regardless of how broken it was. She relaxed a bit and nodded.

"Yes, I am pleasant." she said slowly in Kontinese, making sure to pronounce each word carefully. It was clear the man didn't know much Kontinese, and she didn't want to confuse him. Well, I was when I was listening to the poet. she added to herself, taking a quick glance at the Akalak still sitting next to her.

[Duce Hazimari]

Duce turned around to see another Akalak male walk up speaking on his clapping and motivating the poet, and by the sound of it he was being called unintelligent. Duce made a face at the man as he went from Duce to the Konti who also commented on his actions calling them rude and unpleasant. Feeling not wanted anymore, Duce politely moved around the Akalak and made his way through the crowd as he pushed for the door. Honestly, he really didn't get the poetry stuff. It just wasn't his thing nor did he want it to be. It was as if things were backwards. He congratulated the poet though he didn't like the performance, and he got scolded. Shaking his head he waited first patiently then impatiently for a bystander to move, until he eventually squeezed in between those coming inside as he was trying to get out. Finally making it to the door, he took one last look back at the other two critics that had judged his actions earlier and gave them a nice wave of good bye before he stepped through the door frame and into the sunlight. Poets are weird people. Duce thought to himself once again, but who knew what could happen. He just may meet those two again someday that didn't involve poetry,poems, or the snapping of the fingers. Glad that he was done with that headache, he picked a direction to walk in to see what else was in store for that day.

[Favchean Hronis]

The green man raises a brow at the other in surprise at how the other reacted, as if he didn't understand the Akalak tongue Tukant, but he does not remark or try to stop the male from leaving. Favchean smiles down at the small Konti woman, the white of his teeth flashing against the dark of his skin. His pale blue eyes perhaps looked a little too long at her pale features then was technically polite but in short enough time he swept a large blocky hand toward the last empty chair. "Do you mind..?" He murmurs, still in halty Kontinese, dredging up words from his memory. Instead of waiting for her to respond properly, the Akalak slides into the chair with more grace then one might think someone of his size could possess not wanting to be still standing drawing attention. "I speak...not great...Kontinese." He continues to fumble before he shrugs and reverts back to common tongue. "My mother taught me the bare basics when I was but still a youth." Though another poet was preparing to go on stage, Favchean does not turn is attention away from the other at this table. Something was so quiet about her that struck a chord within him. He was not a social butterfly, nor did he possess the gift of chat that was his dark side that could talk a beggar out of his last copper. He supposes he could summon it but something told him that she would not appreciate a chatty Akalak right this moment. Instead he grows silent, turning those light blue eyes toward the stage as another performer begins. This one talks of a homeland that was lost, sadness filling the poet's voice though his eyes remained dry. He spoke of long lost family and friends that he would never see again. It was far too melancholic for Favchean but he listened politely, all the while being very aware of his company at the table.

[Krima]

23th Day of Fall, 513 A.V.

Krima frowned as the man left. Good riddance! she thought at first, but by the time the akalak walked out of the building she felt slightly guilty. Perhaps he was new to poetry, and didn't know the proper way to respond. Still, he was already out the door, and there was nothing left for her to do. Hopefully she could meet him again soon, and start off on another foot.

She turned her attention to the man next to her, who had just grabbed a seat. She noticed he sat down more gentle than she expected from such a large person. "I speak...not great...Kontinese." he explained in her own native tongue. She laughed a little, since it was already obvious. "My mother taught me the bare basics when I was but still a youth." He explained in common, a language Krima struggled a bit with. She had a bit above the basics down, and could hold a simple conversation with ease, but she was no where near fluent. Most of the time she would read someone's body language, and assume what they were saying. With a smile she answered in common,

"That's great! I lived in Mura until last season. My common is okay." she explained. But just as she finished speaking another poet stepped onto the stage. She turned her attention along with the room and the poet began. It was a human that described the loss of friends and family, something that brought up memories of her sister. Now wasn't the to get upset however, so she pushed down the emotions ready to flood her mind and listened. He continued on about the destruction of an imaginary homeland. One that was described as a desert that stretched for seasons long, with water anywhere but a massive river that cut through the desert. The river way many villages life source, and it made the desert thrive. He then went on to describe how the gods were angry at the villagers, and dried up the river.

Soon, family and friends passed on, along with neighbors and laborers needed for each village. Within a season, the last of any civilization in the desert was gone, and all that remained was the main character in the poem. The whole of the building fell silent, as the poet then described his death, sitting in the last puddle, all that remained from the river. There was a pause, then a bow, and a slow walk off stage. The moment the poets foot stepped off the stage, the entire crowd snapped together as loud as fingers would allow, showing the poet their silence was of admiration, and not distaste.

Krima herself snapped along, though she wasn't exactly as entranced as the rest of the crowd. It had been lovely, but she always had water around her, and Krima couldn't relate enough to the poet to get what he was trying to express. Once the snapping had calmed down, she turned to the man next to her.

"So what did you think?" she asked while tilting her head to the side. He seemed like an okay individual, so why not make small talk?

[Favchean Hronis]

Favchean grins gently, one black brow raising as he makes a sign with his hand - the hand laying flat open, palm side down tilting side to side- indicating it was ok. "It was pleasantly orated," the man says softly, his voice a growl amid the room, low and quiet. "The imagery was lacking imagination. And tonight I do not feel in the mood for sadness." His hand then runs along his head, scratching idly at the shaved sides which reminded him it was time to clean up the shaved area. When his hair begins to grow out it always itches. He was careful not to lean too close to the other, knowing all too well his own size and not wanting to off-put the woman next to him. She was so dainty, delicate that he almost felt that if he breathed too hard he would break her in half. "But then again I did not come here to listen to great poetry. For that I would surely be disappointed." Favchean settled with folding his hands on the table in front of him but even that made him feel bulky and heavy, which made him smile thinking about it. "Akalak poetry tends to run more toward battle prowess. It is far superior."

[Krima]

23rd Day of Fall, 513 A.V.

Krima nodded as the man explained his opinion on the poem. He didn't seem to like it much, which she found surprising. To her the poem was filled with imagery, giving her vivid pictures of the world past. To each their own, I guess. she thought. Still, she kept a steady smile and let the man tell his opinion. However, as he continued on, she increasingly got annoyed.

"But then again I did not come here to listen to great poetry. For that I would surely be disappointed." the smile on her face instantly disappeared. Disappointed? The poem had been lovely, written well and told a story that made you share the emotions of the narrator himself. Wasn't that the definition of great poetry? And still the man kept a smile as he boasted about Akalak poetry.

"Akalak poetry tends to run more toward battle prowess. It is far superior." he continued on. Just because a poem was missing the gore and glory of battle did not deem it bad. It was just another type of poetry.

"And what decides if a story is better or worse?" she asked, sparking a debate within her own mind. "Is Akalak poetry better simply because it describes a more masculine story? Poems should make you feel emotion, and that's exactly what this poem did. I think it was a great poem."

She then made a small gesture around the room. "Everyone else here seemed to have agreed." she added. The entire room had snapped to the poem, showing how they thought it was great. Even though she felt a bit offended, she kept her voice low and steady. Now getting interested in starting a debate.

[Favchean Hronis]

Favchean grins at the smaller woman, his large hands folding almost delicately on the table before him but he finds the words the younger woman speaks interesting. He doesn't agree with them, but that is the beauty of poetry -or so his dark brother seemed to believe, he himself never really got into the arts. With poetry, what makes it good or not is if it speaks to you or not. So for one person a great poem would be another person's mediocre one. No, he enjoyed watching the light come to her eyes, though he felt it probably was more to do with the defense of the poem in question then anything else. "What decides?" He repeats, his own hands lifting to snap politely, "Does an applause mean that we enjoy it? Or does it simply mean one is giving respect to the effort? Many can snap, or applaud as our rather gauche young friend did recently. That does not mean that they enjoy. One can respect and not enjoy." Once the round of snaps ends, they have a little bit of time while the next entertainer prepares him or herself, so Favchean leans forward, not a lot but just a little on his forearms. His pale eyes calm but yet mirthful, "No poetry is not simply good, great or bad. It is neither black nor white..but it is all in the perception. Should I assume you enjoyed? What makes your opinion much greater then mine?" Again his voice is even, there is no hint of annoyance or mockery. In fact he was enjoying the conversation, not the slightest bit miffed at the insinuation that he was simply a muscle bound warrior that couldn't appreciate anything less. "Poetry is good when it speaks to you. If you it doesn't you do not find it good..but different things speak to different people."